


All for a Case

by Boton



Series: The Road to Appledore [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, Gen, Missing Scene, No Johnlock, No Slash, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Season/Series 03 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:05:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2596415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns home from the drug den to find Mycroft and Anderson searching his flat while Janine waits in the bedroom, but all he wants is a bath.  During that time, he ponders what he is willing to do for a case, and just how much he enjoys it.  </p>
<p>Rated T for recreational drug use, mild language, brief nudity (not actor-specific).</p>
            </blockquote>





	All for a Case

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: What makes Sherlock Holmes interesting to me is that he has used his intellect to make choices about how he will live his life in support of The Work. The most famous of these choices, both in Conan Doyle canon and in the BBC Sherlock version, are his drug use and his reluctance to get into a relationship with a woman.
> 
> For both of these issues, I believe that Sherlock has grown adept at walking a line, allowing himself to be tempted and to enjoy the temptations, but rarely committing entirely. The Magnussen case gave Sherlock a great excuse to allow himself the temptations of drugs and female companionship while still convincing himself it was "all for a case." This is my head canon of what Sherlock might have been thinking as he ejected Mycroft from the flat and joined Janine for a bath.

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. Some brief excerpts of dialogue are taken from Sherlock. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.

*****

“Brother mine, don’t appal me when I’m high.”

He twisted Mycoft’s arm behind him, certainly not with his full strength but with too much intensity to be playfully making a point, as he might have done when they were younger. He wasn’t kidding, either. The drugs he had taken last evening, which had allowed him to spend the night floating in a pleasant, anxiety-free haze in which he could ignore the filthy mattress, the periodic sirens wailing outside, and the stench of the junkies lying about him, had started to wear off. He was cranky and short-tempered beyond his own control; although, in fairness, finding Mycroft sitting on one’s steps and Anderson going through one’s cupboards would probably put a saint in a foul mood.

“Mycroft, don’t say another word. Just go. He could snap you in two, and, right now, I am slightly worried that he might.”

Thankfully, Mycroft and his ridiculous umbrella were gone with barely more than a sniff and a sneer, although Sherlock knew this wasn’t the end of the conversation. But right now, the most pressing concern was washing the previous evening’s filth off himself. If he felt the need to disinfect after a meeting with his Homeless Network, he practically wanted to jump in an autoclave after a night in a drug den. But this was for a case, and needs must.

After a few mysterious words to John about the Magnussen case that were sure to whet the man’s appetite for adventure – especially after a month in the suburbs, for crying out loud – Sherlock opened the bathroom door.

“And stay out of my bedroom.”

He hoped that was loud enough for Janine to hear. Janine had been an asset in more than just the case-investigation sense these past weeks, providing a welcome distraction while he pondered the Magnussen case and waited until the right moment to entice John out of domestic bliss to help him catch the blackmailer with billions of pounds and millions of barrels of ink at his disposal. Sherlock had stopped short of making love to Janine, feeling it ungentlemanly and, frankly, unsporting to take advantage of her willingness when his motives were not entirely aboveboard. But he had been tempted several times, especially when Janine started spending the night. He had to give her at least a bit of warning this morning so she knew the flat was still occupied before she came out of the bedroom.

As he closed the bathroom door, he thought about what he had proven willing to do to catch Magnussen – and how much a sense of duty was starting to become clouded with a bit of enjoyment.

There were the drugs, of course. In spite of what he wanted Magnussen to believe, he had never been an addict; he had never failed to be able to put down the syringe or the pill bottle and walk away. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t understand the dangers.

It had all started in university. On a lark, perhaps trying to fit in a bit, he had experimented with cocaine and discovered the seductive buzz of endorphins, the sense of satisfaction that was almost as good as an experiment gone right, a hypothesis proven, a problem solved. For a brief moment, the world was wrought in bright colors and limned in contentment and pride. When he was bored with his studies, he knew he could achieve almost the same feeling with the drug that he did with his own mind operating at its highest level. Almost.

Of course, Mycroft had found out. Mycroft truly did occupy a lower level position in the government at that point, so there was little he could do beyond yell and threaten to tell their parents, to recall them from the empty nest activities they so surely deserved to deal with an activity that was within Sherlock’s control. Mycroft yelled about the unpredictability of street drugs and the dangers of overdose. God, did the man forget that Sherlock was studying to be a chemist? A purity analysis and a dilution of the substance were well within his capabilities; through experimentation, he had learned that he needed only a seven percent solution to achieve the desired results, much lower than what was available straight off the streets.

But Mycroft was right about one thing – dammit – that caused Sherlock to turn his back on the drug: the risk was too great. The cost/benefit analysis didn’t hold up. The drug could give a few precious hours of relief from boredom, but it could also permanently take Sherlock away from The Work, from the intellectual pursuits that were more intoxicating than any drug. The Work was all that mattered.

So, opioids then. When Sherlock was a young chemist living on Montague Street, it was laughably easy to gain access to prescription leftovers from someone’s wisdom tooth extraction or minor surgery or broken leg from a skiing accident. And those idiot doctors from the NHS were easy enough to fool into a script; a small one, perhaps, but enough to have a few pills stashed away for those days he thought his mind would fly to pieces. Those days when his job could have been done by a trained monkey with a primary school education and a sense of responsibility. Those days when he had to swallow his own opinion to defer to so-called superiors, then return home to a few hours of opioid-induced quietness in his own mind. The drugs seemed to wrap the sharp edges of his intellect in cotton wool, letting him relax into crap telly without the relentless pull to think, think, think, but knowing that no amount of brilliance would be rewarded.

God, if anyone was ever an advertisement for the benefits of self-employment, it was him.

He stripped off his “Shezza clothes” and piled them in the corner of the bathroom, unlikely to need them again now that he had proof that Magnussen’s media empire had taken notice of his extracurricular activities. He’d decide later whether to wash them or burn them. Janine’s voice mingled with John’s from the kitchen. Sherlock smirked. He’d give anything to have one of Mycroft’s CCTV cameras right about now; John had never been a champion of hiding his surprise.

He started the bath and thought about the drug den. He’d hated the filth and the drug-induced idiocy exhibited by his companions, but he had to admit that he enjoyed the high – and the ritual. Years ago, while wandering an estate sale, he came across a beautiful piece of Victorian-era medical equipment: a hand-tooled syringe, brass fittings worn smooth with use, nestled in a velvet-lined Morocco leather case. This was the tool of a gentleman, of someone who cherished the procedure as much as the result. He bought it and took it home, never sure what he intended to do with it. 

As it turned out, it got pressed into service in the Magnussen case. The beautiful syringe let Sherlock stand out, even to a bunch of brain-numbed junkies, so that he would be remembered, while it let him exercise control over the cleanliness of his injections. A simple retrofit to the vintage medical instrument, a few clean, individually-wrapped needles nicked from John’s medical supplies, and Sherlock was sure that he was protected from blood borne pathogens. 

He had only “shot up” three times for this case, procuring a small supply of heroin cut with benzos, taking it home to test it for purity, then insisting always on using his own stash. Faked clumsiness allowed him to spill as much as he took up into the vintage syringe, thus minimizing his dose, but he had to let people see him inject. Sherlock Holmes seen in a drug den was one thing, but Sherlock Holmes seen shooting up was what Magnussen was after. And Sherlock had to admit that the high was not entirely unwelcome; the craving that he had subdued years ago was not dead, but merely sleeping. But it was all for a case.

He sank into the hot bathwater and began to wash the grime from his hair when he heard Janine approach the bathroom door, saying something to John about Sherlock taking forever in the bath. She knocked and came in, unbuttoning and shedding his blue tailored shirt that she had taken to sleeping in.

“Morning! Room for a little one?”

She stepped closer to the tub, allowing Sherlock to twist around to grab her arm with his right hand, destabilizing her enough that she toppled slightly as she stepped into the bath and settled herself between his legs. He reached around her with his left hand to tweak her nipple, while he lightly bit her right shoulder where it met her neck. Janine squealed with amusement, as Sherlock replied, “Morning,” in a voice lowered by attraction. He would miss Janine when the Magnussen situation was resolved.

But it was all for a case.


End file.
